


a matter of time

by meridies



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Wings, Angst with a Happy Ending, Family Dynamics, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:41:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29368674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meridies/pseuds/meridies
Summary: Tommy is twelve years old when his wings first appear, and he is twelve years old when Phil tells him, "All it takes is time and patience, Tommy, and soon you'll be flying even better than me."or, Tommy grows up feeling like a failure, and it takes him a while to figure out where he's happiest.
Relationships: Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 64
Kudos: 1140





	a matter of time

**Author's Note:**

> this is based off the new smp using the origin mod that wilbur+tommy n many others streamed today! not dsmp content unfortunately but a whole new thing that i’m very much enjoying. 
> 
> mild cw: brief descriptions of physical pain (a character grows wings) but nothing graphic. enjoy <3

When they are children, Tubbo pushes him from the top of the treehouse.

They’re playing, is all, and they’ve roughhoused with each other before. Tommy has accidentally given Tubbo his fair share of bloody noses and bruises, but he’s never fallen from such a height. 

It all happens so quickly. He sees the fear flash through Tubbo’s eyes. Tubbo stretches down over the railing as Tommy slips, and extends his hand— _Tommy! Hold on to me!_

Tommy falls. 

He squeezes his eyes shut and braces himself. There’s the sickening, horrendous feeling of falling— his mind doesn’t register it but his body does, and he scrabbles for something to hold onto— Tubbo’s hand, maybe, or the railing—

To his surprise, no pain comes.

Instead, he drifts in the wind like a feather, soft and gentle, and the tall grass cradles him before he even registers what has happened.

Tubbo's face is pale. He scrambles down the ladder of the treehouse, fumbling, slipping in the morning dew as he races towards Tommy.

“Tommy,” he says, words clogged with fear, “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry‚ are you hurt, are you—”

“Fine,” Tommy gasps, “I’m fine.”

Tubbo’s eyes, wide and fearful, shift into a sort of glossy wonder.

“But— how?” 

Tommy pushes himself up and looks at the floor of the treehouse. He fell… well, it must have been twenty feet, surely. 

“I don’t know,” Tommy breathes, “I just… floated.”

There’s no other way to describe it other than _floating,_ which is what it is; the wind itself is Tommy’s companion, watching over him. The grass dances beneath his feet as Tubbo urgently says, _I want to see it again._

Tommy braces himself as he clambers back up to the treehouse, closes his eyes in case of failure, and leaps. 

He floats that time, too. 

They bring the question to Phil later that afternoon, sitting on equal sides of the intricately carved table. Tubbo and Tommy are loud, jubilant in their discovery, and chase each other around the house, ducking around wooden pillars, underneath Phil’s wings, massive and pale and speckled with green and gold. They kick each other under the table when Phil says, _simmer down,_ and obligingly, they do.

It only takes a few minutes before the words burst from their mouths, unable to be held down. _Tommy can fly!_

Phil blinks. His jaw nearly drops, but he regains himself just in time.

“What?” 

“I can fly,” Tommy shrieks, bounding with the childish energy of the youth, “I jumped from the treehouse twice today and both times I flew down. Floating.” 

Phil’s hands go completely still, and then he presses them flat to the counter before they start shaking, “Tommy, you can _fly?”_

“Watch,” Tommy proclaims, and he and Tubbo drag Phil to the treehouse again, where Tommy leaps— and for the third time, he floats down, gentle as a summer’s breeze, collapsing into the grass without the slightest bit of pain. 

_You’re like a bird!_ Tubbo exclaims, _that must be your power!_

Phil still looks as though he’s desperately trying to process that information, but before long his face breaks into a smile; a child discovering their powers for the first time is always a thing of celebration.

“Promise me,” he says, once Tommy runs over to him, clinging to his leg, “Please don't jump off anything taller.”

“I promise,” Tommy says solemnly, and links pinkies with him. Though even at seven, Tommy had the feeling that he wouldn’t be sticking to the promise much; he could _fly,_ couldn’t he? What was the point of staying on the ground?

And those were the gentle days; when Tommy was as young as the grass was green, and when time allowed him to hail and climb without regard for his responsibilities.

* * *

Time passes, like it always does, and it waits for no one; Tommy turns eight, then nine, and before he knows it, he is ten years old and celebrating his birthday at the same wooden table, fingers sticky with chocolate frosting.

“Double digits,” Niki proclaims. “How does it feel?”

“Feels wonderful,” Tommy says, mouth full of cake, “I reckon I’m an adult now, don’t you?”

Niki nods solemnly. “Adulthood feels good, huh?”

“Absolutely,” Tommy agrees.

His tenth birthday is a quiet one for the afternoon, but night approaches before long, brisk and blue on the horizon. Tommy sits on the porch, knees knocking together, and watches the horizon change colors, purple to a deep indigo. Niki and Phil walk a few steps away, though Tommy can still hear their voices. They aren’t bothering to keep quiet. 

“I thought Tubbo was supposed to be here.”

“He’s mining right now,” Phil mutters, “He should have been back though, at least an hour—”

“It shouldn’t be taking this long.” 

“Should we go get him?” 

Tommy interrupts, “Is Tubbo okay?”

Phil and Niki both turn at the same time.

“He’s fine,” Phil says, though it sounds like he doesn’t even believe himself. “He’ll be back soon.” 

They wait five, ten, fifteen more minutes, and now Phil’s nervousness clearly rears its ugly head. Tommy recognizes it in his older brother, in the way his knee doesn’t stop moving, jittering up and down, how he glances up at the sky, checking the time. Niki paces back and forth; Tommy knows she’s not meant to be out of water for long, so this must be worse for her. She did say she was only going to celebrate with him for a few short hours. 

Then light looms over the horizon suddenly, and Phil springs to his feet.

“Tubbo?” Niki shouts, “Is that you?” 

The light grows brighter, clearly from a torch, and a figure sprints over the hill. It’s Tubbo— Tommy would recognize him anywhere— and his face is split wide from a smile. He’s stumbling forward, obviously exhausted, but everything about him rings in brightness.

“Phil!” he shouts, “Niki! Tommy! I’m— I’ve got it! I was cornered by _three zombies and a skeleton_ and they couldn’t get a scratch on me, I was unstoppable—”

He slams into the house without a care for the fact that it’s Tommy’s birthday, nearly ricocheting off the walls with his excitement.

“I think,” he crows, with all the gloriousness of the youth, “I think I’m stronger.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Stronger than _usual_.”

“Like— what?”

“Like I just took on a four versus one by myself and didn’t even get hurt!” Tubbo proclaims. “And it was never like that before, but now I’m different, it was so sudden—”

Niki beams, “That’s amazing!” And Phil claps a hand on Tubbo’s shoulder, pulling him in for a hug. 

“We’re celebrating,” Phil declares, “Tubbo, you deserve a celebration as well.”

Tommy’s tenth birthday devolves into a two-parter, both for his age and for Tubbo’s newfound powers. Tubbo talks eagerly, tripping over his words in his haste to get them out, and Phil and Niki eat up every word. 

Tommy feels much quieter than usual.

When he enters back into the kitchen, his gaze falls on the remnants of the chocolate cake, created with love from Niki’s steadfast hands. It’s lopsided and melting with how long it took for Tubbo to get home. 

It makes an odd emotion surge in Tommy’s chest, like icy fingers clawing at his insides. 

He doesn’t know what to make of it.

* * *

When he is twelve years old, his back begins to ache. 

Tommy wakes in discomfort, feeling as if he had run a marathon using only his back muscles, twinging in discomfort. Pain ripples from in between his shoulder blades. It feels like someone has dug cold, sharp fingers into his skin and intends on pulling it out, piece by piece.

He pauses when he pulls his shirt on, standing in front of the mirror. His eyes are shadowed and dark; he looks as if he has aged a hundred years overnight, not in body but in mind. 

Tommy shakes it from his mind. 

He has things to do today, besides; he and Ranboo are mining, and there’s no room for discomfort. They’re planning to expand the narrow, hewn stone corridors beneath the earth’s surface to look for valuable chunks of iron. Tommy doesn’t enjoy it down there; the ceilings are too low, and he feels antsy, closed in, but he owes a duty to their small community. He should help out where he’s able, and mining for materials is one of those ways.

But his back aches when he descends the stairs, it hurts when he says hello to Ranboo, glowing purplish beneath the earth’s crust, and it stings when he painfully extends the corridors by two meters, crossing the earth slowly.

He asks Phil about it that night, because the pain hasn’t eased. It’s only increased, like fire burning beneath the tender layer of skin. 

Phil looks at him curiously. “Right between your shoulder blades?”

Tommy nods.

Phil’s expression turns contemplative.

“Keep an eye on it,” he says, “And if it’s still hurting like this in a month, we’ll take you to an apothecary.”

Tommy nods. A month is manageable; he’s been through worse. He once broke his arm when he was a child and had to grit his teeth while Niki splinted it up; there have been weeks in the winter where they didn’t have enough to eat and the hunger gnawed away at his interior; he once ran so far that his side splintered into pain, a muscle pulled too far, and had to limp back home in weakness.

A month should be manageable, but as it turns out, it isn’t. 

* * *

Tommy learns one night, when he wakes up feeling like an animal is crawling beneath his skin, that he can’t sleep on his back. That night he goes to Phil, face screwed up in pain. Slowly, Phil applies a soothing ointment to irritated skin. 

His eyebrows are drawn together, but his voice is gentle when he says, _wings, Tommy, these will be wings someday._

He’s— he’ll have _wings._

“Really?” Tommy whispers, eyes wide. 

Phil nods. He runs a hand softly through Tommy’s hair, sweaty and plastered to his head, “It— it will hurt. I can’t promise you that it won’t. But it was like this for me, when I was your age, and I know the signs. They’ll be like mine,” Phil says, and his wings are sheltering and cool around Tommy’s burning skin, “You’ll be like me.”

That’s everything Tommy has wanted, isn’t it? He sinks to his knees, and his back _hurts,_ and he wants to curl into Phil’s arms and to be held, to be cherished, and to be cradled, like he’s wholly young and new to the earth. He wants this to be over, but Phil explains, calmly, that it’s a process all of its own, not understandable yet, and he has to let it run its course. 

The last few days of his twelfth year of life are spent in turmoil; in sickness, crisp fever washing over his skin, in fire splitting his skin, in hours of hazy sleep and awakeness. 

But on the morning of his thirteenth birthday, Tommy looks in the mirror and sees—

“Wings!” he shouts, and they flutter, brilliant and painted red, gold, orange, “Phil, I’ve got _wings!”_

* * *

Having wings is tremendously beautiful.

That morning Phil reassures him that he won’t be able to fly, not yet; it takes time and energy and practice, and even though Tommy has always fallen slower, like the winds themselves are his friends, it’ll take time to learn how to manage the wind and fly. But Tommy doesn’t care; he can’t stop seeing them in the vestiges of his eyesight, seeing the wings fluttering, and he wants to stretch back and touch them, run his hands through the feathered limbs, trace the lines of his body and _feel._

“That’s preening,” Phil says, face laced with the sweet sort of joy that comes with looking at someone discovering something for the first time, “It’s easier if you have someone to do it for you.”

Tommy asks, “Who preens your wings?”

“Wilbur,” Phil answers, “When he’s around.”

He preens Tommy’s wings, then, which are ruffled and misshapen from existing for the first time, and he teaches Tommy carefully about _primaries_ and _secondaries_ and how to pluck feathers so the remnants will grow straight and even. In an hour's time the floor beneath them is covered in soft, pearly baby feathers, curled up at the edges, and the larger red ones, which are stronger at the edges, enough to hold air beneath them. Tommy never stops looking in the mirror; when he blinks, he sees the colors of fire— red, gold, orange, yellow— splintering through his vision.

He asks Phil, “When will I fly?” 

Phil thinks for a moment.

“It took me around six months,” he says, “But you’ve always been determined, Tommy, I’m sure it won’t take you as long as it took me. Time and patience, that’s all.”

* * *

_Time and patience_ becomes a recurring phrase in Phil and Tommy’s home. 

It’s _time and patience_ when Tommy impulsively leaps from the top of the oak tree that used to hold a treehouse, which has since fallen into disrepair, and it’s _time and patience_ when his wings spread, but don’t catch the air beneath them and he simply floats to the ground in the same way he always has. Phil reminds him next morning of _time and patience_ and Tommy groans, slumps his head down next to a bowl of cereal, “I don’t _want_ to have time and patience!” 

“It’ll be fine,” Phil says amusedly, “Don’t worry too much about it. It’s been barely a week.”

Tommy sets his gaze on the horizon. He vows that it may have taken Phil six months, but it’ll take Tommy two. 

But two months go by, and Tommy glares at the ground.

“Four months,” he promises out loud, “I’ll be flying in four.”

No one hears him break that promise, when the four month mark arrives, and Tommy sighs. 

He promises, then, it will be at six months. And—

Six months transform into eight. Eight transforms into ten. Ten turns slowly to twelve.

Tommy’s thirteenth year passes in a blur with nothing to show for it. 

On the eve of his fourteenth birthday, Phil finds him standing behind the bathroom door, face crumpled and hands trembling.

The thing is that Tommy has never been particularly good with time, and he’s never been quite good at patience. It’s a skill that he has never mastered. He has always gone around the world in such shades of vibrancy that he doesn’t wait for things; the world has to rush to catch up with him. He thinks, with a laughable arrogance, that if he had asked the grass to grow faster when he was young, the grass would have done it.

Now, though, he discovers the true pain of patience, and realizes that out of all the people he knows, Tommy is the least suited for waiting.

“Tommy,” Phil says gently, “Dinner’s ready.”

Tommy says bitterly, “I don’t want to talk to you.”

His eyes are locked on the mirror, and he makes eye contact with Phil through it. His face betrays no emotion other than a cool thoughtfulness. Tommy sees his eyes run over Tommy, over the red-rimmed eyes, his wings tucked back, hands curled into fists by his side. 

“Did I do something wrong?” Phil asks eventually, voice upset, and _oh,_ that’s worse.

“No,” Tommy grits.

“Is there something I can do to make you feel better?”

Tommy’s eyes sting. He hates when Phil sounds genuinely helpful; it makes him feel worse.

“No,” he lies, “I want to be alone.” 

From this vantage point in the mirror, he can see the outline of Phil’s own wings. Phil’s are massive and curved, wide enough to block out the sky when they’re spread wide. They’re painted in shades of green and gold. Those wings make a strong ache of jealousy pulse through Tommy’s chest, vibrant and wanting, and he finds that he _wants—_ he wants to be as good as Phil, he wants to be as strong as Phil is, he wants to do everything that Phil can. 

Like he’s reading his mind, Phil steps closer. He reassures, “They’ll grow, you know.”

He raises a hand and gently touches the junction of feather and skin at Tommy’s back, “They will, even if it’s slow. I promise.”

Tommy’s eyes have dipped to the ground, to the white knuckles of his hand, but he raises them again to look at Phil. 

For an awful, clear moment he’s struck with just how similar they look— same curls of blond hair, shorn close to the ears, same shape to the eyes, same tilt to their head and jawline. They look just like brothers, nearly identical— if it weren’t for the stark difference in wingspan and color between them. 

Phil’s are vibrant and guiding and could be magic, if Tommy didn’t know any better, large enough to catch the wind beneath them.

And Tommy’s are—

He absurdly wants to ask, _will I be like you when I’m older?_

But Tommy doesn’t. The words stay clamped inside his mouth.

Besides, he already knows the answer. 

* * *

For a while, during his fourteenth and fifteenth years of life, Tommy spends his days in the Nether.

Tubbo is traveling with Ranboo, has been for the last few months or so. Tommy hasn’t seen him in what feels like ages, though he receives scrolls dictating adventures from both of them. They’re signed with Tubbo’s messy, looping scrawl and Ranboo’s even, slanted cursive. Somehow these letters find him, even when he’s exploring bastions, conquering Nether fortresses, far away from the recesses of what the world knows.

Tommy isn’t sure whether he wants to see Tubbo again. When they were children, Tommy was loud and explosive and Tubbo was meeker and quiet, but it seems like those roles have shifted. Tommy can’t remember the last time he was as riotous as he was in youth. 

The last time he spoke with Tubbo they sparred, in the clearing they played in as youth. Tommy warned him _I won’t go easy on you,_ and Tubbo had grinned, eyes flashing, _neither will I!_

Tommy prides himself on being a good swordsman, but somewhere along the line, he slipped behind his best friend. That match, he barely managed to nick Tubbo’s sleeve, while Tubbo was merciless in his fighting. 

_I’m just stronger,_ Tubbo shrugged, not gloating but simply honest, _I don’t think you can beat me anymore._

There’s a brief, vicious moment where Tommy is thrown into the golden limelight of youth. In those days, Tommy was always the faster one— he would challenge them to footraces and would be able to leave them in the dust easily. The softer days, when such things were impressive— but they aren’t children anymore, and it’s no longer impressive to simply be fast or to float. 

What’s impressive now is usefulness. In being able to provide, in being able to survive. 

When Tommy exits the Nether, he does so into a strange, unknown portion of the woods. He recognizes some landmarks, though, and as he follows his compass home, he comes across a small shack.

“Wilbur?” Tommy calls, brow furrowed in disbelief. “Are you here?”

He would recognize Wilbur’s handiwork anywhere, from the stilted nature of the roof to the narrow slant of the stairs. Even though it’s been ages since he and Wilbur have talked, Tommy recognizes the signs of his friend like the back of his hand.

Wilbur and Tommy have always been close. If it weren’t for the fact that they’re so different in their identities, one might even call them brothers. 

Tommy knocks impatiently at the door, tries to peer through the crack, and with a start, it’s thrown open.

“Tommy!” Wilbur exclaims. He looks pale and shadowed, and with a start, Tommy realizes he can see right through him. “I wasn’t— expecting visitors.”

“Clearly,” Tommy says, shaken.

“Well,” Wilbur extends a hand, “Why don’t you come in?”

* * *

The thing about Wilbur is that Tommy is never able to keep his mouth shut when he’s around. It only takes one cup of tea, making the entire room smell of fragrant jasmine, and Tommy is spilling all of his secrets to the air. 

He talks and talks until his voice grows hoarse, and he complains about the stifling heat of the Nether, how it’s so much colder in the overworld. Then it shifts into _it’s so much harder to preen your wings by yourself, especially when yours are so small,_ and before long Tommy is baring his soul. He says _why am I not good enough?_ And _I wonder where everything went wrong._ And finally: _I feel like I’m a failure._

The last one he adds a laugh onto, just to dim the hopelessness of it. It doesn’t fool Wilbur though. 

“I don’t think you’re useless,” Wilbur reassures, “I think you’re very impressive.”

Tommy scowls. “You’re only saying that because you’re trying to make me feel better.”

In response, Wilbur stretches out an arm into a strip of sunlight, and immediately his skin, pale and specter-like, begins to turn red— it’s like watching the beginnings of a sunburn in quick time, and Wilbur retracts his hand with a grimace. He rubs at his skin.

“I can’t go into sunlight,” he says, “But _you_ can.” 

Tommy despises that argument. He and Wilbur are different in so many ways. Tommy would even argue that Wilbur is better than him— has been, for his entire life. 

“Stop that,” Wilbur says, with a sigh. 

“Stop what?”

“Stop hating yourself,” Wilbur says. “I can tell you’re doing it.”

The thing is that it almost feels _justified_ — such wild, burning hatred— because Tommy would hate himself even if he wasn’t in this body. 

“Did you not listen to what I just said?” Tommy snaps. “I don’t know what else to _think._ ”

Wilbur sits in contemplative silence for a moment. 

“I think you need a break,” he says, “I wanted to visit you a few months ago, but Phil told me you were working.”

“You know I was in the Nether,” Tommy says.

“Were you visiting Jack?”

“I was,” Tommy says, “For a while.”

The plan was to stay with Jack, in his home, for a year or so. Get some space, get some _time._ Some _patience._ But before long Tommy grew bored with it, and he set off on his own. Jack hadn’t complained; he had probably wanted some peace and quiet, and Tommy provided none of that.

“And then you were on your own?”

Tommy shifts uncomfortably. “What does it matter?” 

“You’re my friend,” Wilbur says, voice small, “And you’re still a kid, you shouldn’t be on your own.”

Tommy grits his teeth. He doesn’t think he’s a kid. He feels far too old, regardless, and some part of him, hidden and in need of nurturing, tells him that he’s never been a child in the first place. Now his days are spent trying to fight back the crushing feeling of failure. He can’t look at his own family without seeing the marks of his failure. It feels like he’s trapped underwater, but no matter how much he tries to claw his way to the surface, the light only fades further. Soon it’ll just be him with no hint of sunlight, empty and fathomless, floating in the vastness of the ocean. He cannot see his hand in front of him, he can’t see his feet, he can’t see where he’s going or where he’s headed. There’s only the all-encompassing, awful blackness of his failure; it chokes him, it surrounds him, and he’s running out of air.

Tommy sucks in a shaky breath. Then another. Reminds himself that he can breathe, he’s a creature of the air— he doesn’t belong underwater, like Niki does, and he doesn’t belong to the fire, like Jack does, or even to the earth, like Tubbo— Tommy works with the sky and the clouds.

But even those, too, seem to reject him. 

He thinks about telling Wilbur this, but Wilbur has grown silent and closed off. 

“Will you be coming home with me?” he asks, when night spills like ink over the sky.

Wilbur shakes his head. “Not right now.” 

Tommy slings his bag over his shoulder, grips a torch in one hand. 

“I’ll see you soon,” he says, “Right?” 

He waits until Wilbur nods before setting away from his doorstep and towards home.

* * *

He finds that in the years he’s been away, not much has changed.

The wooden table where he and Tubbo used to eat all their meals has been replaced. Phil tells him with a wry smile that he spent a good week carving a new one. Tommy’s childhood bedroom is the same, the shoreline is the same, though Niki’s underwater house is abandoned and long empty. Phil says that she’s moved to a deeper ocean, with more room to expand. 

He’s spent so long in motion that now, surrounded by stillness, Tommy isn’t quite sure what to do. 

He looks out at the empty fields, at the oak trees splintering the skyline. Summer is approaching. 

_Be useful,_ a voice whispers to him, and failure sinks claws into the softness of his wings, and Tommy thinks, _I’ll be useful._

The field looks like the perfect place to start something new.

* * *

As it turns out, starting a farm from scratch is very difficult.

The first day ends in exhaustion and sweat and not much success; the second follows quite the same. He exhausts easily, though he should be used to physical exertion from all his days in the Nether. Though working in the overworld feels different; his arms go limp more, and he feels lethargic, sleepy. 

That could also be a side effect of being home. He never feels lazier than when he’s surrounded by his childhood.

Phil finds him on the fourth day.

“Wilbur wrote me a letter,” Phil says without preamble, approaching Tommy, “He told me you were feeling down.” 

“I’m not feeling much of anything,” Tommy lies, “I’m really quite busy.”

“Mhm?” Phil says, amused, “Busy with what?”

One hand curls around the stone hoe; the other hand grips the sack of seeds at his side. Tommy looks down at the roughly hewn field that he’s been attempting to cultivate. He figures that since his stomach turns whenever he eats meat, he might as well not eat it anymore. Besides, he enjoys potatoes more. 

But it’s hard, tiring work, and Tommy’s arms always feel light whenever he works too hard, and his head is spinning. Maybe from a lack of sleep, lack of water, from the stinging fear of failure, but either way—

“I’m farming,” Tommy says sharply, “So if you’re going to help, then you can stay, but otherwise I’d rather you leave.”

Phil’s eyebrows crawl up his face in surprise at Tommy’s tone.

“I can help,” he says, “Do you want any?”

Tommy glares down at the dirt.

“I don’t care,” he says, which is as close to a _yes_ as he’ll ever get.

Phil looks down into the earth and says, “I can begin planting here, if you want.”

Without words, Tommy tosses him the bag of seeds. Phil takes two steps down, crouches down to the earth, and plants the first row of crops. Tommy raises his arms again, strikes the ground, tilling it. 

They work in quick, efficient silence until Tommy has to take a break again, exhaustion spilling over him.

“About that letter from Wilbur,” Phil says conversationally. 

“Ah.”

“He told me you were feeling— upset,” Phil says, “I wondered if you wanted to talk about it.” 

The untilled dirt stares Tommy in the face. 

“I’m fine,” Tommy says.

Carefully: “Are you?” 

His wings flare without Tommy meaning them to, and he draws them back in. Their movement is an admission of guilt, of pain, of _not being okay,_ and Phil can see that admission clear as day.

Which is why he continues, uncaring that Tommy would rather be anywhere in the world but there, “Is it about flying?” 

“No,” Tommy grits.

“Because it’s okay if you can’t fly,” Phil says bluntly, “That will never bother me.”

Tommy clamps his mouth shut and refuses to speak. 

“And it’s okay if you can’t fight,” Phil continues, “Or work in the mines for a while, or anything. In fact, you could hate us, Tommy, and we would still love you.”

“I don’t want to talk to you anymore,” Tommy says.

“You could do— something awful,” Phil says, and waves a hand expressively, “You could do anything, you could be cruel and horrible and I would still love you, so dearly, with all my heart, and I would always want you around.”

Tommy squeezes his eyes shut, and the hooks of failure dig deeper behind his sternum, pulling him ever forward into oblivion.

“Shut up,” he tries, strangled, “It’s just that— I— I don’t—”

 _I don’t want to be around you,_ Tommy wants to scream. Every time he sees Phil, he feels like— a mistake. The hooks of failure dig deep into his skin, curl around his soft, vulnerable soul, and they whisper cruel things to him. They tell him _you’ll never be good enough_ and _you’ll never measure up to them_ and _if you weren’t his brother, he would have cast you off long ago, and he would have said_ **_good riddance—_ **

None of those words find their way to speech.

Tommy only lies, “I’m just tired.” 

The world blurs before him. 

Phil’s voice breaks through: “You can rest here.” 

Tommy shakes his head mutely.

“You don’t have to work yourself to the bone,” Phil says, “You have nothing to prove to me.”

Tommy grits, “I have _everything_ to prove.” 

Phil’s face breaks from confused complication into sorrow. An awful, wide-eyed sorrow, cutting deep through all of Tommy’s defenses. 

Phil opens his mouth, presumably to say _I’m not lying_ or _it’s okay if you’re angry,_ and Tommy braces himself to hear words that will inevitably sting.

What Phil says, though, is this: 

“You’re still so young,” he whispers, “You have all the time to grow.” 

Tommy closes his eyes, feels the shadow of his brother’s wings pass over him, and waits until all sound has faded away.

When he opens his eyes again, it is only him, the speckled, pale potato seeds, the turned earth beneath his hands, and the glorious, heated shades of his wings. 

Tommy stares at the colors until his eyes burn too much to see them at all.

* * *

Time stretches days between her fingers in colored strings, weaving and interlacing the weeks like they’re quicker than seconds, and the tapestry of summer passes in a haze. Tommy blinks and wakes up, goes to farm his potatoes, pushes his long hair back and wipes the sweat from his brow. He and Phil go, sometimes together, and they work in quick silence as they uproot the rows of crops ready to be harvested. When the sun is arid, July rearing her head, Phil stretches his wings out to provide a canopy of shade. Tommy sits cross-legged underneath, drinks water enough to quench his thirst, and presses a hand into the cool earth.

“It’s nice,” Phil says sometimes, “What you’ve done here.”

Tommy looks out on the field he’s built, and all the things he’s accomplished. To the him of five years ago it would have felt like nothing at all, but he knows the worth of what he’s made. Everyone eats these potatoes, and they’ve gotten brilliant at cooking them in a dozen different ways so they never grow bored of it. 

“I know,” Tommy says brusquely, and pushes himself to his feet. 

He finds solace in the waters that Niki used to house, in the babbling brooks that he and Tubbo would play in as children. Phil joins him there every so often, pants rucked up and wings tucked, and they talk about everything that comes to mind. The potato patch flourishes. It grows from crop to crop, too, and before long Tommy is cultivating red, vibrant beetroot, carrots that grow larger than his forearm, plump tomatoes, red berries sweeter than sugar, and rows of pumpkins and melons that take all of Tommy’s energy to lift. The farm becomes more than just a way to get his frustration out; it grows into everything he’s accomplished.

And he does it all on the ground.

Phil brings up that fact a month later, and Tommy brushes it off. 

“That’s a moot point,” he says, “It doesn’t matter.” 

* * *

It is a rainy afternoon when Wilbur returns home, too. 

He finds Tommy on a bench, knees pulled to his chest, wings extended overhead. His wings have grown, like Phil said they would, but years have passed and he is no closer to taking to air. When Tommy stretches his arms out, though, he cannot reach the end of his wings. The feathers are more vibrant than ever.

“They’re pretty,” Wilbur says, and takes a seat next to Tommy, half-sheltered from the rain. “I like them.”

“Thanks,” Tommy says.

“And you seem a little happier,” Wilbur continues. 

“I am,” Tommy says.

As if out of habit, Wilbur’s hands come up to Tommy’s wings, and he begins sorting through the feathers, just like Tommy has seen him do with Phil. Wilbur’s hands are swift, gentle, but there’s a horrible feeling when Tommy cranes his neck and realizes that one of Wilbur’s hands has gone directly through his wing, invisible and non-corporeal. 

“Your hand,” Tommy tries to say, but Wilbur brushes it off.

“It happens sometimes,” Wilbur says, “To tell you the truth, I think I enjoy being non-corporeal sometimes.”

His voice is tinged with bravery, but the tail end of it wobbles. Tommy feels as if he’s looking in a mirror; he can recognize that Wilbur is lying to him, in the same way that Tommy has lied to other people.

“What about you?” Tommy asks curiously.

Wilbur tilts his head. “What?”

“And you,” Tommy says, “Are you happier ?”

Wilbur’s gaze grows distant. He looks down at the ground; one of his hands slips through the bench they’re sitting on, dissolving into mist.

He says, “I am.”

It sounds like a lie. Tommy is old enough to know that.

But he is also old enough to know that Wilbur doesn’t want to talk about it; it’ll weigh down on him, heavy and crushing, but Wilbur will talk when he’s ready. This rainy afternoon, knees knocking together, gazing out into the mist, is not ready _._

Tommy pushes himself to his feet. His wings bristle; water flows from them and splashes onto the area he had just been keeping dry. 

“You’re joining us for dinner tonight, right?”

Wilbur gives a sad, tired little smile.

“I am,” he says, “I always will.”

“Good,” Tommy says, “It’s been a while since all of us have been together.” 

It has been a long time; Wilbur travels, Ranboo is busy with cataloguing strongholds, meeting and talking with other people like him, trying to figure out the limits of his powers; Niki is far away underneath the ocean; all her letters arrived written with waterproof ink, stamped with a wax seal in bluegreen. Jack is busy building a kingdom inside the Nether, unstoppable and unconquerable by flame; Tubbo has been exploring the far mysteries of the world. By Tommy’s reckoning, tonight will be the first time they’re all together in over a year. 

Over the years, their family has spread far and wide. It’s much different from the tight-knit community they were during the years of Tommy’s youth, when they were clustered together, all depending on the other. Everyone grows tired of home eventually, and needs to split away to become their own being.

They’re a series of plants, diverging in the sunlight, but beneath the earth they all have one root.

Wilbur arrives back at the house once night begins to dims, and slowly, Tommy’s childhood home begins to fill.

It starts with the three of them: Wilbur, Phil, and Tommy, all navigating through the kitchen around one another, and then Tubbo bursts into the room, armor still on, and gives Tommy the tightest hug he’s ever had. Ranboo is quick on his heels, taller than all of them, ducking through the doorway. Jack brings fire and heat to the already warm room, and Phil rushes him outside of the kitchen when Jack scalds the bottom off one of their pots. Niki is the final guest, and her hair is tied back neatly, still damp with waters from far away, and she smiles, her hugs feeling like a breath of cool air. 

Their pockmarked family is choppy and roughly sewn together, and it is glorious, brilliant, happy when they’re all sitting around the dinner table. And Tubbo exclaims _you’re so freckled, Tommy, it’s all the sun!_ And Ranboo says _your farm is incredible, I’ve never seen anything like it, it must have taken you ages!_ Jack exclaims _Tommy, I’ve built you a room in the Nether— you have to visit when you can, I’ve been working on it for months,_ and Phil says, with all the honesty in the world, _I’ve never been more proud of him,_ when he thinks Tommy isn’t listening. 

Tommy sits at the head of the table, feeling like his smile might shine brighter than the sun, and for a stellar, spectacular moment, he cannot remember why he ever felt so alone. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> if you enjoyed, please leave kudos/comments/subscribe to me on ao3, it makes my day!


End file.
